


The Kaedwen Wolves

by Kaerith



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:41:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28812855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaerith/pseuds/Kaerith
Summary: Witcher/hockey crack.Lambert hated Cray’s smirking face whenever he saw it through the face shield of his helmet, and seeing it uncovered when Cray walks in the locker room in his street clothes doesn’t make Lambert like it any more.Cahir is the one who brings Cray around to introduce Lambert. “This is Lambert,” Cahir says. “If you’ve only met him on the ice, then you might expect him to be polite off of it. But don’t; Lambo’s got a foul temper and an even fouler mouth.”“Lies,” Lambert says. He doesn’t feel the need to look up and make nice. They just need to work together on the ice and Lambert’s a professional.“Of course I know Lambert,” Cray says. He soundsteasing,and Lambert doesn’t like it one bit. “And I know he has a reputation for being a mean bastard to everyone except kids.”“Hey,” Lambert says, defensive. “Who says that I like kids? I’m mean to everyone.”
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of foul language. Some homophobic references, if anyone is sensitive to that.
> 
> Don’t ask me if these boys are still Witchers with the mutations and stuff- I haven’t figured it out. It’s just hockey AU crack for the audience of myself. :)
> 
> Any hockey knowledge I get wrong is because I only read it, not watch it- and those fics rarely have the sport itself as the main theme. So, half-assed Googling. If I get something wrong, feel free to correct me.

Aiden Cray is a wild cat. Not just because he’s a Venendal Wildcat, but because he is an agile, scrappy right-winger who has a history of literally hissing at opponents when he gets riled up. Lambert has been in scrums on the ice with him and he is positive that the guy isn’t just fronting and would love to throw his gloves down at every chance he gets.  


When the team hears that Cray has been picked up and is joining the Kaedwen Wolves, there is a group text of mixed reactions. Lambert saves his real response to this news for a private chat between him, Eskel, and Geralt. “Who the fuck thinks this is a good idea? First excuse he gives me I‘ll kill that cocksucker.”  


Geralt sent back “Not if he kills you first lol” even though Lambert knows that the sad asshole doesn’t LOL in real life. Eskel, who can’t stop being Captain even off the ice and over godsdamned text, responds with, “If you use any homophobic slurs against Cray again, I will have to report you.”  


“I didn’t mean it like that,” Lambert texts back. “I don’t care about that kinda shit.” Cray is out: gay, bisexual, pansexual— whatever, Lambert doesn’t care enough to understand the specifics. All that matters is that Aiden Cray is a stupid-good forward from an opposing team who gets on Lambert’s nerves, and Lambert has very few nerves to waste before he goes off about anything.  


“Equal opp asshole,” Geralt throws in, presumably about Lambert cussing out anyone, even old ladies that give him the stink-eye. Then Geralt adds a winky emoji to make it sound suggestive because he learned how to text from his freaking tween-age goddaughter.  


“Homophobic slur against me Eskel” Lambert types, laboriously inputting every letter when he would normally just shorten the long word to “homo,” because Eskel wouldn’t let any potential disrespect slide because of laziness.  


“FML” Eskel responds. It is his usual way of saying that he is done with texting with them and is putting his phone down and will likely forget where he left it because he is a worse technological dinosaur than Geralt in some ways.

* * *

Lambert hated Cray’s smirking face whenever he saw it through the face shield of his helmet, and seeing it uncovered when Cray walks in the locker room in his street clothes doesn’t make Lambert like it any more. Eskel leads the welcome wagon while Lambert stays in his stall and gets ready for practice.  


Cahir is the one who brings Cray around to introduce Lambert. It figures, Lambert thinks. The defenseman from Nilfgaard would be chummy with an Ebbinger. “This is Lambert,” Cahir says. “If you’ve only met him on the ice, then you might expect him to be polite off of it. But don’t; Lambo’s got a foul temper and an even fouler mouth.”  


“Lies,” Lambert says, bent over and getting his shin guards on. He doesn’t feel the need to look up and make nice. They just need to work together on the ice and Lambert’s a godsdamned professional. “And stop calling me that, Ceallach, or I’ll hook up with another one of your sisters.”  


“Of course I know Lambert,” Cray says. At least, Lambert assumes it’s Cray; it’s an unfamiliar voice and not as growly as he would have expected. The prick sounds _teasing,_ and Lambert doesn’t like it one bit. “And I know he has a reputation for being a mean bastard to everyone except kids.”  


“Hey,” Lambert says, defensive, looking up to meet Cray’s blue eyes. “Who the fuck says that I like kids? I’m a mean bastard to everyone.”  


“Right, right. I’m sure you don’t have a soft heart hidden away that you only allow adorable little children to see,” Aiden says in a facetious tone that means he is placating Lambert even as he rolls his eyes.  


His attitude earns him a narrow glare from Lambert and a retort of, “Fuck what you think, _cat._ ”  


Cahir pulls Cray away. “Don’t antagonize him.”  


“But it’s so fun,” Cray says, shooting a glance and smug grin back at Lambert before he follows him.  


Lambert is only going to refrain from breaking his face because now he is a teammate. Cray might have an accident or two when he goes out drinking with the team, but that will be in the future.

* * *

Lambert and Cray are both offensive players and are put on different lines, so they don’t share ice much in games. When they do, though, they both prioritize The Game over causing any drama.  


That rule doesn’t apply if they are both on the bench. Then there is constant bickering and insulting and competitive betting. Regis, their athletic trainer, finally snaps during a game with the Bears. “What will end this persistent fighting? Do you two need to fuck it out? I am this close to locking you two together in the sauna!”  


Lambert’s brain freezes. What?! Why the fuck would Regis think he and Cray would...? Cray _was_ into guys, yes, but Lambert wasn’t. Even if he was, he would never be into such a snide douche like Aiden Cray!  


“I wouldn’t say no,” Cray says, that smug asshole, leering at Lambert in a way that made him hot with discomfort.  


“You _wish_ I was into you,” Lambert shoots back. “Unfortunately guys like you aren’t my type.”  


Seeing Cray’s eyes light up with evil delight clues Lambert into realizing that response had been a mistake.  


“So what kind of guys _are_ your type, Lamb?” Cray practically coos as he flutters his eyelashes at him.  


“None. Historically,” Lambert adds, because half the roster is there on the bench, including Regis and Detlaff who are having a covert “thing,” and Lambert doesn’t want to be called out as homophobic. He doesn’t like the way everyone is eyeing him like they expect some godsdamned _elucidation_ , and it feels too much like a challenge for him to be smart and just back down. So his mouth keeps going. “Even if I was, it would have to be someone nice,” Lambert says, because it is the word that he would least use to describe Cray.  


“ _Nice,_ ” Detlaff cackles. “Lambert, the last thing you want in a partner is someone nice.”  


“Hey,” Lambert says, a little too loud, but his ears are burning and he wishes he could just put his helmet on without any more teasing. “I can like nice guys. Girls. ...Either, but mostly girls. Because I’m straight. But not close-minded.”  


He had completely forgotten that it was Geralt sitting next to him until he speaks up. “You know he’s really scrambling when he stops cursing,” he says, and he elbows Lambert who turns his scowl on him.  


“Fuck you.”  


“I’m not _nice_ ,” Geralt says, and the cold bastard cracks a rare fucking smile.  


Cray leans across Roche toward Lambert with a sly smile. “I can be verrry nice,” he purrs at Lambert, before the grinder shoves him away.  


“No flirting on the bench,” Roche says.  


“We do it all the time,” Detlaff points out, leaning his head back against Regis’ stomach.  


“Lambert, get on the ice,” Dijkstra shouts.  


Saved by the coach. Lambert gets to his skates and pulls his helmet on.  


“Get a goal and I’ll _be nice!_ ” Cray yells as Lambert jumps the boards, and he almost eats ice. He refuses to look back because his face is burning and he wishes that he could flip the entire team off over his shoulder while wearing his gloves.

* * *

Aiden is lurking by Lambert’s car in the garage when he exits the arena. He doesn’t know how Aiden knows which car is his, and he doesn’t want to guess why Aiden is there.  


Lambert glares at him but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge him as he unlocks his trunk to toss his gear in.  


“So,” Aiden says, slinking up, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers. “Nice goal.”  


Lambert grunts. He wasn’t going to compliment Aiden on his own two goals. He’s tired and doesn’t want to interact with anyone else tonight.  


Aiden blocks his path to the driver’s side door.  


“What do you want?” Lambert asks.  


“I believe I made you a promise,” Aiden says. He eyes Lambert down and then back up before he leans against the car.  


That sparks the memory of Aiden’s earlier jibe. The possible interpretation of Aiden Cray “being nice” makes Lambert feel a little hot. He doesn’t want to show Aiden that, so he says, “Then thanks for the nice compliment or whatever. Get outta my way.”  


“Such a sourpuss,” Aiden says, clicking his tongue chidingly. “Would getting off improve your mood?”  


“I’ll tell Eskel you’re sexually harassing me,” Lambert says.  


“It was just a question,” Aiden says, shrugging in a way that makes his torso undulate slowly. Catlike. “If you’re not in the mood, then you’re not in the mood. Or so I’ve heard. I myself am always in the mood.” Another quick savage grin, catlike.  


Lambert has always liked cats but very few have ever seemed to like him. Here is Aiden, a guy who has been around him for training and games, hasn’t been chased off by Lambert’s shitty personality, and is actually pestering him for more attention. It’s disconcerting. Even Eskel and Geralt rarely want to hang out with Lambert, and they’ve known each other for _years._  


“So just keep that in mind,” Aiden says, snapping Lambert’s brain back to this bizarre conversation.  


“I’ve already forgotten whatever you said.”  


Instead of being insulted, Cray just smirks. “I’ll always be ready to be nice for you, Lamb. Have a nice night!”  


All Lambert can really think to shout after him is, “Don’t call me that!” and Aiden Cray just waves back over his shoulder as he walks away.  


Fortunately, Aiden Cray’s promise of “being nice” seems to also include generally not being an asshole for the next few weeks. He chirps the guys as usual- Lambert in particular also as usual- but the insults lack the casual edge of sharp truth that makes him such a dickwad. Cray is almost distracted except when he’s on the ice; then he is all business.

* * *

When Eskel and Djikstra and everyone finally believes in their truce, Lambert and Aiden suddenly just clicked in practice scrimmages. So much so that Djikstra swapped Aiden for Detlaff, putting him in the first offensive line with Lambert and Geralt. 

The change came as a huge surprise to the Talgar Griffins. Their defense crumpled under Aiden and Lambert’s combined assault. 

“We were _ploughed,”_ Coën gripes wonderingly after the game, when he, Eskel, Geralt, and Lambert were downing the contents of an entire keg of Redanian Lager in private. They had gotten to know one other well growing up under Vesemir’s tutelage, living together with intense hockey training. Coën had been picked up by the Griffins when the new franchise was started only six years ago. “It’s that whiz kid you guys traded for.” 

He gestures with his tankard to Lambert. “Who could’ve guessed you two would get along? You hated him, last I heard.” The captain turns back to Eskel and Geralt. “Do Cray and Lambo actually get along?” 

“Like oil and water,” Eskel says, shrugging. 

Geralt nods and nudges him with an elbow. “We were worried they’d be like oil and fire. You know how Lambert is with, well, everyone. But I think Aiden’s actually been a calming influence, particularly off the ice.” 

Coën explodes into chuckles. “This Wildcat managed to do what old Vesemir never could and tame our Bertie?” 

“Fuck you!” Lambert could take a lot of chirping from an old friend like Coën, but he wasn’t godsdamned _tame!_ Even if he was, it would never be because of fucking Aiden Cray! Geralt manages to hold him back with a grip on his shirt as he tries to vault the table to punch one of Coën’s freaky permanently bloodshot eyes. 

The Griffin captain raises his hands placatingly. “Peace, brother. After that disaster of a game, it is obvious you two are more like oil and fire! Esteril is going to be riding our arses to shore up our defense for _months!”_

Lambert sits back down with a smirk, his honour placated. “Your D tore like wet tissue. Wasn’t even a challenge,” he says smugly before sipping his ale. 

“Don’t have to be a sore winner,” Coën teases mildly. 

“Would think you boys in the North had plenty of ice to practice on,” Eskel adds. 

The Griffin just shakes his head. “We’re gonna see a lot more of it. Thyssen is sadistic enough to lock us on a rink with two rabid badgers so we can put on a better show with your wingers next time.” 

Lambert scoffs. “Even Aiden and I can strategize better than a couple badgers.” 

Coën shrugs. “Pretty sure it isn’t strategy with you two. It’s like... pure shared intuition. Practically impossible to predict and counter.” 

Afterward, when he is alone, Lambert reflects on that and has to agree. It isn’t anything planned; he and Aiden are just always on the same page. Even if Lambert has to deke unexpectedly to take an unexpected path around an opponent, Aiden is almost always in the right place to accept his pass. He supposes he hadn’t consciously noticed it before. It makes the mutters of “magic” from his teammates make sense, now. 

But it isn’t fucking magic. Lambert has just stumbled into the first person he has ever met who simply seems to think like him. Considering the population on the planet, it’s about damn time, too. Everyone else has always just seemed so... stodgy. Especially Vesemir, and Geralt and Eskel always shuffled to the old man’s tune without question. 

...Definitely not _magic._ Ridiculous.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolves vs. Vipers

The Vipers are like their mascot: mean, wily fuckers who always seem to squirm out just when you think you’ve got then pinned. 

Their unique playing style is both their weakness and their strength. They have a tendency to cluster up if there is an attack, all of ‘em thirsty for easy blood. They hit hard and pile up on a single opposing player. And they must have the League refs in their pocket or whatever because they are never penalized as fairly as they should be. It makes them one of the most hated teams, except for their devoted following of fans who are all underhanded, slippery bastards. 

So when Lambert sees godsdamned Letho Guletski barreling towards him like a gorilla on skates and the Wozgorski brothers not too far behind, all Lambert can do is keep control of the puck until the last possible second and then pass it to Aiden and take the hit, drawing half the Vipers’ men away from Aiden and feeling oddly certain in his faith that Cray will score before everything blacks out. 

“Did we win?” Is Lambert’s first question when he sees Eskel and Geralt when he wakes up in a clinic. 

“Hmm,” Geralt says, which Lambert can easily interpret from long experience as an affirmative variation of the sound. 

“Who the hell hit me?” Lambert’s head is fuzzy with the details. 

“Practically all the Vipers on the ice,” Eskel says. “I’m not surprised you don’t remember.” 

“Eh, that tracks.” He can’t even remember the game they were playing, but the Vipers are dirty like that. 

It is Keira Metz on duty- because _of course it is,_ Lambert has the shittiest luck- and his ex has the temerity to smirk condescendingly at him like she didn’t simply walk out on him in Vizima after two weeks of fucking after winning the Emperor’s Chalice two years ago. 

“I’ve dulled the pain and accelerated healing with a Swallow, but do you have any after effects?” She asks sweetly. 

“Nope. Feeling fine. Time for me to leave.” Eskel, especially, is giving him A Look that is probably supposed to make Lambert buckle, but no one knows about the spectacular screw-up that was him hooking up with Keira. 

Lambert gets to take a portal back to his place, and he takes off his clothes to sit in his sweatpants on the couch with the megascope tuned to ESCN. Jaskier is on, which makes Lambert smile a bit because he actually _likes_ the guy. The gossipy musician and entertainer has somehow become a friend of Geralt’s. He has an inflated ego that makes him immune to Geralt’s grumpy insults and a reckless tenacity that keep him poking at the man like a thorn despite all of the White Wolf’s brush-offs. Lambert especially appreciates how Jaskier somehow interprets Geralt’s prickishness as a sense of humour, which perpetually frustrates his brother. 

Jaskier is Kaedwen’s regional personality, so even if he wasn’t interested in hockey he would still be reporting on the game. But because he is so friendly with all of the Wolves Jask spends a lot of his broadcast time focusing on their team. He is still at the arena and has blustered his way onto the Wolves’ bench. When he looks to the side his face lights up and Lambert smirks because he knows that means he sees Geralt. Knowing his brothers, Geralt is probably scowling and trying to go back to the clinic to complain of a spontaneous injury while Eskel is forcing him to keep moving to the bench. Lambert cackles when Geralt drops onto the bench and Jaskier seats himself on his knee. “So how’s Lambert? Is he out for the rest of the game?” 

Eskel’s affirmation is louder than Geralt’s grumble. “The Vipers hit him hard enough that he needed a potion. Rules don’t allow anyone to play under the influence.” 

Jaskier scowls and starts lambasting Letho and Serrit and Auckes Wozgorski for being bullies who got away with bad sportsmanship. 

Apparently, the Wolves are up by four points and there isn’t time enough for the Vipers to match in the last few minutes of play and the Swallow is wearing off, so Lambert turns the ‘scope off to hopefully lessen the pounding in his head. He only noticed that he’s slipped into a doze when a knock on his door wakes him up. 

He stumbles blearily to answer it. “Yeah?” He says to the strange man who just blinks at him before smiling in a coy way. 

“Nice to see you’re still your usual cheerful self. I brought your shit from the arena.” 

That is indeed Lambert’s bag. He doesn’t hand it over and Lambert doesn’t want waste energy arguing and figures that someone sent by the team was safe enough, so he just steps aside to let the guy come in. “I also grabbed some flamiche from that Toussantois place you like.” 

Lambert can smell it. “How the fuck do you know that’s my favorite?” 

The guy has dropped the gear on the couch and is unwrapping the leek tart at the kitchen table. “You aren’t exactly a man of mystery,” he says, which is a total lie because Lambert has hidden depths, alright? “Plus, I owe you for being the distraction so I could score that hat trick.” 

The Vipers hadn’t had three points when Lambert had had the magiscope on, and we’re unlikely to make that many before the end with how many of their players were in the bin and off the ice. That meant this man was on the Wolves and Lambert’s memory wasn’t simply foggy: he was actually _missing_ some pieces. But, hell, he wasn’t about to tell anyone about that and it was likely to all come back soon anyway. 

“Wolves would have won anyway without your third point,” Lambert says. That is simple math: 6-2 last he heard in favour of the Wolves. If this guy is a Viper pulling some prank (unlikely, since he had been able to get Lambert’s stuff) and the guy did score three points for that team, Lambert would still seem like he remembered the game they were talking about. 

“True,” the visitor says, opening cabinet doors. “Where do you keep your- ah.” He puts two plates on the table. So while he seems friendly enough to know Lambert, they aren’t close enough that he has been here a lot. “But I had to make your gallant sacrifice mean something.” 

“And reward me?” Lambert says, indicating the flamiche. 

“C’mon, Lamby,” the guy coos at him, batting his eyelashes. “You know how I just wanna give you nice things.” 

“Don’t call me that,” he says automatically, because there is no version of him that will ever be okay with being called that. He takes the fork offered and mutters, “Haven’t I come up with a special nickname for you that doesn’t piss _you_ off?” He says it with just enough sarcasm that he thinks the guy could take it as an insult or not. Lambert is confused at the visitor’s behaviour; how familiar are they if the guy knows his favorite food, but doesn’t know which literal two of the figurative sixty-billion cabinets that Lambert actually uses? 

“Just Wildcat or Cat,” his guest says with a casual shrug. “Though I’ve been a Wolf now for almost three months, so you should really update your chirping.” 

Him being a recent trade from Venendal could make sense. Lambert still has no clue what his _name_ is, though. 

“You haven’t earned your chops yet,” Lambert says, digging in. “Though keep bringing me these, and I might put in a good word for ya.” 

“I’ve already charmed the rest of the team,” the guy says with a wink. “You are the last holdout. Making me step up my game to seduce you.” 

He can’t... he cannot mean that _literally._ This man doesn’t think that Lambert would _ever..._

“You can eat your damn pie,” his guest says, rolling his eyes, his smirk so godsdamned annoying. “It’s a consolation for getting your bell rung, not an agreement to sexual favours.” 

Lambert can’t hold strong against Mme Launay’s pastry and he digs in. The (former) Wildcat in his kitchen finally broaches the subject of the game time Lambert had missed tonight, something he doesn’t mind hearing about. “Believe it or not, but even Roche was all for targeting that squad of Vipers that took you down!” 

Lambert snorted, doubtful that he’s the reason. “Roche still hasn’t gotten over what Letho did to Foltest. That shitty play was just an excuse.” His guest doesn’t look like he has a clue about what happened between Letho and Foltest. Lambert isn’t in the mood to enlighten him, just waves for him to continue. 

“ _Of course,_ Eskel was all, ‘No penalties, men, let it go.’ And then Geralt told Detlaff that the hit didn’t do a thing because your head is as dense as a rock, and then just went along with the captain’s orders!” 

It was almost endearing how enraged the guy looked on Lambert’s behalf. Lambert had to chuckle even if made his forehead throb. “It is. No need to worry about my pretty face, either. That was ruined a long time ago.” 

“I like your face,” the cat says. “I think you look very attractive.” 

Lambert lifts an eyebrow. “Thought they required vision tests to play hockey. No one with working eyes thinks that.” 

His visitor just shrugs and smiles a bit coyly. “Men often have different standards. Just another reason why you should consider playing both teams.” 

The euphemism is funny, but Lambert doesn’t laugh. “I’ll stick to the Wolves,” he says. 

The Wildcat’s smirk is sharp, but he appreciates the joke. “Wolves, huh? Even I am not that open-minded. Do your canine conquests come here, or do you have rendezvous in the forest?” 

Lambert doesn’t dignify that nonsense with an answer. He finishes his flamiche and wonders how long this guy is planning on sticking around. Not long, in Lambert’s opinion... but he’ll let him finish his food first. 

He leaves the cat in the kitchen and heads to the washroom mirror. It’s been a couple hours, so the toxicity of the Swallow he took has decreased enough to just discolor the veins around his eyes. The rest of his body just has the normal hallmarks and scars of his profession: enough weight on him this early in the season, the facial scars from Gerd’s skate blade eight years ago, the odd bump of his fourth rib, his two crooked left fingers which had been smashed into the boards and now didn’t bend all the way, several other scars from broken bones. There were also the invisible aches and pains of a strained and patched-together musculature. Top that off with his scowling and abrasive personality and receding hairline, and no one would look at him and consider Lambert a delight. 

But it’s fine. He is a loner by nature anyway, and can’t imagine wanting to be around even one person for too much time. As long as he can find teammates or fans to drink with when he is the mood for company, fans of other teams to fight with when his is _not,_ and whores or puck bunnies who are dazzled by his fame and fortune to put up with him for a night... yeah, he is low maintenance like that. Lambert is not, like, pining for companionship or anything, like Geralt keeps hinting at. Just because the notorious lone White Wolf has gotten tamed with a goddaughter and a burr of a bard and is now 60% less of a grumpy cunt doesn’t mean that Lambert is secretly all lonely and shit. 

His visitor’s voice calls down the hall. “Unless you need anything else, I’ll head out.” 

Lambert rinsed his hands for no real reason before exiting the washroom. The former Wildcat is slouching in the entryway, yawning. 

“What else would I need?” He asks. 

That earns him a variant of that now-familiar smirk. “I dunno, a babysitter until your amnesia goes away?” 

“It isn’t fucking amnesia! The only memories I seem to be missing is the game tonight and everything about _you,_ so net win for me actually,” Lambert ripostes. 

The cat pulls a face that Lambert thinks is supposed to be alluring or something but only makes him roll his eyes and scoff. “But, baby,” the guy says, so ridiculously plaintive and over-the-top, “What about _us?”_ He can’t keep his snickers back and cracks up in the middle of the stupid ploy. 

Lambert rolls his eyes again and moves past him to open the door. “In no fucking world will there be an ‘us.’” 

This perversely seems to make his visitor smile genuinely. “There we go,” he says like a mystery has been solved. “You’re cussing again, so you must feel better. Just tell me, ‘fuck off, Aiden’ and I’ll leave and report back mission success.” 

“Fuck off, Aiden,” Lambert dutifully repeats. “It’s getting cold holding the door open for you, so move your ass Cat-Boy.” 

Aiden sashays up to him to give him a quick, condescending pat to his cheek. “Regis says to rest your thick head and go check in with him tomorrow morning.” 

Lambert slaps his hand away and scowls. “Should have known Regis would have put you up to this.” 

“But the flamiche was my own idea. You’re welcome.” Aiden then pinches one of Lambert’s other cheeks and cackles when he gets shoved away. “Geralt was right!” He crows as he skips to his car. “You do stop cursing when you’re scrambling! Complete giveaway that you didn’t remember me!” 

“I’ll definitely remember you now and greet you with a flamethrower next time,” Lambert grumbles as he closes the door firmly. “Fucking _Cat!_ ” He hisses as he turns the lock.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m still tweaking teams/locations/players and trying to keep canon characters in approximately the same geographical locations, but... timeline? What timeline? 🤷🏽
> 
> Thanks to the few people who let me know they are also into this stupid intersection of fandoms and tropes! Comments, corrections, suggestions, & personal headcanons are always appreciated!

Never let anyone tell you that Lambert isn’t capable of change. He _is_... he just requires enough evidence to be sure that changing his mind or his behavior is worth it. 

Being a hockey player adds higher stakes to that whole “changing” thing, though. You’ve got over twenty guys with no boundaries, each with the average emotional intelligence of a rodent, always keen to pounce on you whenever a sliver of weakness is shown. Even if most of that pouncing is done as some skewed dude-bro affection-via-wrestling-and-chirping. 

So Lambert expects to get a lot of shit when he relaxes his hostility toward Aiden. But he doesn’t think his tiny little attitude adjustment requires a sudden silence in the locker room when he simply says, “How’s it going, Ace?” 

_Of course_ Aiden doesn’t miss a beat. He screws up his face and tilts his head and says, “Don’t think that one works, Lambo.” 

Lambert ignores the guys who have turned into statues of men pulling on their practice gear and casually shrugs. “I’ll keep workshopping it.” 

Cray gets to his stall and drops to the bench to remove his shoes before anyone else moves. “What the fuck?” Cahir says. 

”That hit from Guletski must’ve shaken something loose in his head,” Roche adds. 

”Maybe if you ask nicely Guletski can check you into the boards hard enough for your balls to shake loose and finally drop, _Vernon,”_ Lambert shoots back. 

”What kind of blackmail do you have on Lambert?” Ceallach asks Cray. 

”Hey, I feel no shame about anything!” Lambert says with a scowl. 

”Aiden took his stuff over after the game the other night,” Detlaff says archly. “Bet he caught ‘im with his wits scattered and his guard down.” 

”C’mon, guys,” Aiden says with a smirk and a chuckle. “Lambert is a normal dude! I took him his stuff, bribed him into a better mood with some food, then left. You’ve all heard the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach!” 

”Not sure Lambo has a heart,” Oven, their starter goalie, opines, tightening his laces. 

”Never thought I’d see the day when your affections could be bought,” Geralt throws in. “Usually you’re the one paying for it.” 

Lambert shoves him, though the bastard hardly even sways. “I actually let him set a foot into my house, so there may _have_ been some brain damage involved.” 

That earns him more derisive hoots and chirps about _how could anyone even tell?_ which he takes with the type of Zen that polecats are famous for (i.e.: none, and with an excessive amount of violence). 

Djikstra has to barge into the room and throw his considerable weight around with a threat of bag-skating to get them to behave. 

* * *

All jokes aside, now that Lambert has gotten over himself he can see that Aiden isn’t a bad guy. He’s not a punk who lives to stir up shit like Lambert is; instead, Aiden weaponizes his aggression on the ice, pokes fun at his teammates mostly to hold his own, and then singles Lambert out for extra attention because.... Well, Lambert thinks Cray does it to flirt. He himself is still on the purely hetero side of the street, but he kind of... trusts Aiden now. They’re put together in a line flanking Geralt, and while the White Wolf still has the skills to win the drop, the pair of them are the ones doing most of the scoring. 

Lambert, used to being the third-rate runt of Vesemir’s squad, is a bit apprehensive that G is gonna take him ‘round back and beat him up just so a broken femur can make Lambert stop outshining him for a while; but his bro basically says that it’s nice not having to carry the team on his back anymore. Of course the lunkhead makes the poor choice to say that when half the Wolves are within earshot, so his lucky gloves go missing, lucky skate laces get snipped, and his lucky socks somehow get put in the wash with something that makes them pink. When he complains, everyone just drags on him for needing all that so-called “lucky” shit in the first place. 

So Lambert is, overall, pretty stoked that his name starts being mentioned by the news press in the same sentences mentioning names like Berengar, Keldar, and Arnaghad, and figures that if getting along with Aiden earns him this kind of success and recognition, it is totally worth putting up with the stupid come-ons. 

Still, he is somehow surprised when Jaskier and his crew stop him on the way to the changing room after another win against the Griffins. 

_“Lambert!”_ Jaskier says in that stupid, plummy tone that makes Lambert turn around, roll his eyes and reply, “What,” in the flattest, most patronizing way he can manage. Usually the two of them are buddies, but this _live-from-the-Ard-Carraigh-arena!_ version of Jaskier can be so fake. It is his job, of course, and he has two sorceresses and a guy with a megascope rig sending out the live broadcast, but the insincerity still always rubs Lambert the wrong way. 

”You and Aiden have been lighting it up!” Thankfully, Jask’s dumb affectation melts away in his enthusiasm, and he slaps Lambert’s arm in admiration. “What’s the secret to your success?” 

With his new freaky Cray-sense, Lambert knows on a molecular level that Aiden is lurking just a bit further in the tunnel, listening in. He doesn’t look, but can envision _exactly_ the smug look that is on his face as he watches Lambert. 

He is a professional, though, so Lambert finds it easy enough to say, “There is no secret, no magic. Sometimes you just find another player you click with.” He shrugs, like: _no big deal; Aiden and I are just gonna become the next Zyvic and Hrafhir: Legendary._

Jaskier’s eyes sparkle with devious intent. “Fans predicted that you two would hate each other. Was there any initial strife between you at first before you found your groove?” 

”We’re pros,” Lambert replies mildly, not about to let Jaskier wind him up. “Our playing style is really similar, really aggressive. We’re mentally just on the same wavelength. I’ll see an opening, know how I want to play it, and Cray is always in the right place for a pass. We just have a different mindset than, like, Eskel or Geralt. Like I said, there’s no secret.” 

That isn’t the answer Jaskier wanted, of course. He narrows his eyes and says, challengingly, “You two have very different lifestyles off the ice. Has _that_ caused any drama?” 

It’s a low, dirty tactic and Lambert wants to hit Jaskier in his very punchable face. He mentally cycles through the possible tacks to take and settles on, “For a Southerner, he’s pretty okay. I mean, we have to order some wine for his snobby palate or whatever because he acts like Kaedweni ale is horse piss, but he takes the teasing from the team about that with no problem.” 

Thankfully, Jaskier follows up with Aiden on this scandalous topic instead of pressing him blatantly about Cray’s sexuality (it is all very hypocritical of Jaskier, anyway, on both the sexuality and the wine-snobbery fronts) and Lambert gets to walk past Aiden defending his alleged crime against local beer. 

“Thanks a lot!” Aiden huffs at Lambert later in the locker room. “I will be risking my neck walking into any Ard Carraigh taverns for the rest of the decade!” 

”You know what topic Jaskier was trying to bring up, so you’re welcome.” 

Cray rolls his weird catlike green eyes. “Me being pan is a lot less controversial than my preference for Toussaint red over Kaedweni stout!” 

“Sounds like you’re just gonna get girls and guys ordering you free beer to try to win you over, so you’re welcome,” Lambert says. Next to him Detlaff chortles and from across the room Oven yells something about being jealous. 

Aiden looks more thoughtful and then shrugs. “Maybe,” he accedes. “But I get to show you some other establishments than your usual fucking dive of a pub.” 

* * *

Aiden has been in Ard Carraigh for only four months, but somehow has more knowledge of the city than Lambert has gained in almost fifteen years. He piques Lambert’s curiosity by saying things like, “After this you should come with me to the Three Horses,” and Lambert may not have any idea what the hell this “Three Horses” place is, but was so ramped up by beating the Griffins in a nail-biting shootout that he couldn’t imagine going home and trying to unwind alone. 

Three Horses turned out to be a public house spanning at least four floors and serving a variety of races and... well, genders, though Lambert had grown up only thinking there were two of those. 

(When Lambert had admitted that, Aiden had snorted into his drink. “You poor, sheltered little Lamby-kins. I can see your mind being blown by that leather-daddy dwarf in the sequined crop-top!” Lambert had scowled at the nickname, but had been too busy craning his neck around to try to spy the mentioned dwarf which he somehow hadn’t even clocked, and- yeah. Mind. Blown. It was... like a train wreck: something his oft-ignored conscious kept telling him not to stare at, but his face just kept looking and gaping until the sequin-leather-daddy-gnome grinned through his bushy beard and gave him a _wink!_ ) 

Not every place was as wild as that. Aiden had cultivated friendships with all kinds of people and benefitted from those relationships by being welcomed and given special treatment at some well-known establishments as well as low-profile ones. 

The matriarch of the insular Zerrikanian commune, for example, had invited Aiden to some New Moon feast. “It will be a learning experience for you!” He had told Lambert. 

“I am still digesting the Three Horses ‘experience,’” Lambert said warily. “And I’m not sure I’m the best person to take to a feminist gathering. I don’t have the best filter.” 

Aiden had just grinned with an edge of danger. “Then who better to teach you than the Zerrikanians?” 

Lambert didn’t know any traditional Zerrikanians, had only seen documentaries on the ‘scope, but Cray’s taunt was too much to back down from. 

Turned out the Zerrikanian women were a blast to get smashed with; blunt and even crude, and Lambert had a great time even though Aiden hauled him out when he had been about to take Bolanle up on her offer to return to her place. “Bad idea!” Aiden had chortled as he kept pulling Lambert away by his sleeve. “She’ll keep you there with her other husbands! No more hockey!” 

“But- _sex!”_ Lambert had whined. It had not been his finest hour. 

(Okay, maybe the commune does not belong on the list of the tamer locations Aiden had introduced him to.) 

“How do you know about these weird places?” Lambert asks one day. They’re trying to kill off nasty hangovers by eating some of the greasiest breakfast sandwiches he has ever had the pleasure of holding that they had picked up from a hole-in-the-wall sausage stall. 

Aiden’s first attempt at a reply is muffled around a mouthful of food, but after he swallows he repeats himself more clearly. “I talk with people. Different types of people; not just the guys on the team or hot girls trying to gold-dig you.” 

Lambert looks at his sandwich and weighs that not-diet-plan-friendly double-handful against that thought. “Huh.... Nah, I’m not sure putting the effort into making small talk with randos is worth it. I guess it’s worth putting up with your bullshit, though.” 

Aiden goes for an elbow jab as Lambert takes another huge bite, and he presses himself toward the door on his side of the car. Cray doesn’t want anything to drip on his gearshift, so he stays on his side of the console and just gives Lambert a dirty look. “I am giving you an education! You should be saying thank you!” 

Lambert tosses him a wide grin that gives him a look at half-chewed food. “Thank you, Aidey-Cat,” he sings out, thoroughly enjoying the man’s expression of disgust. 

Cray rolls his eyes and flips him off. “Shut your mouth or I’ll kick you out. I told you: no messes allowed in my car.”


	4. Chapter 4

Their first roadie is a four-game blitz management booked that is a mix of other Men’s Elite League and Women’s Premier League teams. 

Their first portal takes them directly to the Angren arena where they suit up to have a practice and then dress down to mingle with the Angels who are hosting a buffet. Meve, captain of the Angren Angels, has a grudge against Geralt that he has never explained to Lambert, but he enjoys watching them circle the room pretending that they aren’t avoiding each other. 

It’s just an exhibition game when they get on the ice, but Lambert thinks that they don’t tell the women that. While Eskel and Djikstra had emphasized this was supposed to be a friendly scrimmage, the Angels seemed out for blood. At the first break, Geralt stomps into the locker room in a fit of pique to get Regis to replace a tooth. 

“Did you plough the entire team _and_ insult their mothers, G?” Lambert says gleefully now that they are out of earshot of the Angels and their fans. He has had to hold in his delight at the women’s focus on Geralt the entire period. 

“Maybe it’s because they’re a new team,” Aiden says. “The WPL is making a huge push for fame and sponsorship, wanna get on a level with our league with pay and opportunities.” 

“Okay, yeah, I did know about that,” Lambert says, because he reads everything in hockey news. “But that high-sticking Geralt in the face and bashing his teeth in seemed pretty deliberate.” 

Aiden shrugs and grins one of those sharp smiles. “I agree. That one must’ve been personal.” 

“I’m not talking about it,” Geralt says around Regis’ fingers. 

Things cool down once they’re back on the ice with Geralt out. The Angels play like they are normal people instead of ones possessed by vengeful wraiths. Once the potions have tightened Geralt’s gum around the reinserted tooth he wants to get back out during the third, but Eskel manages to scowl him back down the tunnel. Even though the Wolves win the game, the entire team heads straight to the inn instead of celebrating their win out in the city or even venturing out in into the public halls of the arena. While the Angels’ team may have calmed down and accepted the defeat gracefully, there had been several rabid fans howling at the glass for their blood. 

* * *

Beauclair, their next stop, is a large and beautiful city with a small population of hockey fans, and they get one full day to be low-profile tourists. Detlaff spent some time around here in the minors, so he and Regis split off to probably do all the romantic shit Toussaint is famous for. Lambert’s happy to leave Eskel to Geralt’s complaining, and makes Aiden accompany him out. 

“I know Toussaint has generous Happy Hour specials, but even those don’t start until after noon,” Aidan says, pretending to be astonished by Lambert being interested in going out when he is already fully fed and likely to remain fully sober for a while. 

“I like things that don’t involve food,” Lambert says. And he does. It’s just... boring shit no one else has ever been interested in. Aiden, at least, has the temperament to be able to amuse himself if he gets bored and doesn’t require a constant watchful eye to stay out of trouble. 

Aiden gives him a look that like while he _may_ believe Lambert, he still has no idea where to begin imagining specifics. “Like what?” 

“Books, for one. I read a lot.” 

“You... read.” Cray’s response is more of a question than a confirmation that he heard him correctly. 

Lambert pulls up the map app on his phone. He has a place bookmarked that’s within walking distance of where the team is staying. He orients himself and then puts the phone back in his pocket. “Yeah. I read. About lots of other shit besides hockey.” 

“Hey, man, I believe you.” Aiden speeds up to match Lambert’s pace. “You’ve got, like, an impressive vocabulary. When you choose to say something that isn’t unprintable. ...So, we heading to a bookstore or something?” 

“Unless you have a better idea.” 

“This early? Nah.” 

“You don’t have any insider knowledge about your old rival team’s city?” Lambert asks Aiden as they walk through the sunny downtown. 

Aiden shrugs. “Guillaume and I dated for almost two years before I joined the Cats. We broke up when he moved back here for good. I know places, but.... Just bittersweet, you know?” 

“Nah. No idea,” Lambert says. “I don’t date.” 

“You don’t even date girls,” Aiden says archly. “You just hook up.” 

“What’s wrong with that? Girlfriends are just high maintenance and shit. Why bother with all the drama?” 

“You should try dating a guy. There are a lot of chill men that don’t need drama,” Aiden says. 

“So misogynistic! And here I thought you were the poster boy for ‘genders are a social construct,’” Lambert makes air quotes to be obnoxious. “Besides, I don’t fuck dudes, so why would I want to date one?” 

“They often have fewer expectations of traditional romance. Since nice gestures or even remembering things aren’t your strong points, you might enjoy companionship with someone who had a lower bar. And never say you hate something ‘til you’re tried it.” 

Lambert snorts. “That isn’t a good argument. If I asked you to eat shit, would you wait to say ‘No thanks’ until after you took a bite? Besides, why do I need to date to have companionship? I hang out with the team when I want to.” 

“You wouldn’t be lonely at home,” Aiden says. “Don’t even try to tell me that you aren’t lonely. I’ve been to your place, remember? It’s depressing.” 

Lambert shoves him. “ _You’re_ depressing. Look at you, all hunched over with your hands in your pockets. Afraid of being recognized by Manticore fans?” 

“Why do I even try with you?” Aiden mumbles, glaring down at the cobblestones. He actually sounds more bitter than Lambert can remember ever hearing him be before. Cray usually even takes hard game losses the best out of all of them, like all the urge of competition leaves him the second the game timer’s run out. _I like to live in the moment,_ is how he explains it. _No anticipation, no regrets, y’know?_

Lambert is getting the idea that Aiden isn’t quite as blithe as he pretends to be. Here and now, in fucking Beauclair, he’s moping around like the sun isn’t shining and the air isn’t all warm and redolent with flowers. Lambert can totally catch a clue. 

“So this Gee-yom or whatever? Sounds like breaking up with him was a big deal.” 

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Aiden mutters, tucking his elbows in further against himself. 

“Sure,” Lambert says easily. “I mean, not like I’m interested in your past relationship shit. You just might have more interesting stories than my niece.” 

“Geralt’s kid? Isn’t she, like, eight?” 

“Twelve,” Lambert says. “G just likes to pretend that she isn’t almost old enough to be a teenager.” 

Aiden actually sounds less mopey and more interested. “What kind of stories can a 12-year-old have?” 

“Boring ones. She can talk for forty minutes about how a girl looked at her or how she is trying to translate a grunt some kid gave her. I tell her to take that monosyllabic boy nonsense to Geralt for translation; he’s the one still fluent in pubescent male angst because he never moved on.” 

That gets a laugh out of Aiden. “And, what, the girl drama goes to you? Are you the expert fluent in that?” 

“Phhh,” Lambert shakes his head. “Hell no. But even tween girls are more reasonable than boys. Not that it matters; Ciri never takes my advice anyway. Even when it’s good advice.” 

“What advice?” Aiden asks, smirk back on his face even if it isn’t at full strength. “Tell me. What kind of love advice can _you,_ Lambert Morhen, cranky-ass badger, give anyone, particularly a young girl?” 

“Be up front and straight-up say, ‘I like you.’ I mean, what else is more basic than that? It’s not fucking alchemy. I mean, _I_ can do it. Just... kids that age don’t have the confidence yet.” 

At last, the bookstore. The door is propped open due to the pleasant weather, so Lambert just goes right in. 

* * *

Aiden is finally out of his funk by the time they leave. Lambert can tell because the Cat can hardly wait until they exit the threshold before, “Pickles?!” spews from his mouth on one gigantic plosive burst that is followed-up with a silibant hiss that lingers seemingly to express his utter incomprehension. 

“Pickles,” Lambert confirms, tucking the book under his arm unbothered. “I mean, I wasn’t expecting a section on beer brewing here in the middle of wine country, but fermentation is fermentation, man. The guy convinced me it’s worth trying.” He had already checked his phone and knew their next destination was only across the street and a few shops down. Aiden could either follow or stay here with his mental meltdown. “I’ve got hobbies. Keep telling ya I’m a man with depth. Not my fault you don’t believe me.” 

“...Okay, okay, beer makes sense,” Aiden says, scrambling to catch up. “So you do that home-brewing stuff?” 

“Distilling. It isn’t a secret. Ask Oven about last Midwinter’s feast.” 

“Dude, _nothing_ touches Oven!” Aiden says. “He’s like, 240 pounds of muscle that not even vodka shots can take down!” 

“That’s why he’s starting goalie,” Lambert agrees. “Not even ethanol can slip past those neurons, so pucks are rarely that lucky. But that hooch I gave him really fucked him up. Everyone says I have a talent.” 

“Shit, I almost believe you, but I still think I need to see Oven drunk off his ass to believe it for sure. ...Wait, what? Here?” Aiden looks at Lambert in confusion as he moves to enter another store. Lambert just ignores him again.


	5. Chapter 5

They go to Fen Aspra next, home of the Venendal Wildcats. Aiden takes a deep sniff as they exit the portal room in the basement of the stadium. Lambert can’t pick out any particular scent. “What, does the far south smell better or something?” Aiden shakes his head. He has a small frown of concentration or worry. Lambert admittedly isn’t the best at picking up nonverbal cues of anyone’s emotional state, but he gets that his friend is probably weirded out for his first game against his old team, and being here at their home ice is going to be especially rough. 

He shifts his bag of gear to his other shoulder and slings an arm around Cray. “We gotchu, Fox.” 

“Fox?” It isn’t only Aiden who asks, but Geralt as well. 

“What else do you call something that’s both cat- and wolf-like?” Lambert says. 

A few of the guys chuckle, but no one disagrees. 

* * *

Lambert has never gotten why fans boo players who used to play on their favorite teams. Most of the time players don’t get much of a choice in being traded. Plus, it’s just part of the job; Aiden didn’t, like, defect to the side of the enemy during a war or something. 

When Aiden gets on the ice, the sounds of disapproval rain down on him. Lambert makes sure to skate by him and bump shoulders, then flips off a couple of dude-bro assholes behind the glass who are halfway though their first beers and making faces and gestures at Cray. 

“My hero,” Aiden says dryly. “Though I am surprised that you can give anyone the middle finger while wearing a glove.” 

”I developed and perfected the technique,” Lambert calls back. 

”Of course you would prioritize that over working on your crappy wrist shot!” Aiden chirps back. That is blatant slander; Lambert is a forward left-winger and, thus, _obviously,_ has an _excellent_ wrist shot. 

The Wildcats and Wolves have a media-manufactured rivalry, so they are all practically contractually obligated to make the game chippy and throw down gloves. Lambert spends his minutes in the sin bin, and mostly focuses on the puck whenever he is back on the ice. He wants to maintain the high ground and keep teasing Geralt for losing a tooth for a long time, which will be infinitely more satisfying if he remains relatively bruise-free. 

The game ends in overtime with the Cats taking the W. Aiden checks his messages the second he is back in the locker room and has his gloves off. “Anyone wanna meet up with some of the other guys for drinks?” 

Cahir, Fenn, and Silas say they’re up for it, so Lambert shrugs and says, “Anyone worth meeting?” 

”Gaetan and Axel are cool,” Aiden says. “If Shrodey comes, it’s 50/50 that we’ll have a real wild night.” 

The Wildcats they hang out with aren’t too bad. Axel and Cedric are a little more invested in the Wildcats’ grudge against Kaedwen than Lambert cares for. (It’s not like they are even generational rivals of Venendal, like the Beauclair Manticores, so Lambert doesn’t get what their problem could be.) Lexandre is just a self-centered douche, but Joël and Shrödinger aren’t bad. Aiden and Gaetan keep up a buddy-buddy act most of the night, until Cahir and Axel lure Aiden away for a game of darts. 

Gaetan slides himself and his drink down the bench to sit closer to Lambert. “So you’re the famous Lambert, baby of the three Morhen boys.” 

”We’re all adopted, thank the gods,” Lambert says. “I don’t think the media mention that fact as much as they should.” 

”Makes for a good story. Three brothers become the headline players on the same team. Too bad you guys don’t make up the entire offensive line-up.” 

”Nah, Eskel’s best on defense. He’s too slow. Swear down, though, he’s faster when skating backwards. I think it’s ‘cause he’s big and solid enough to plow through a brick wall, so he has nothing to be scared of.” 

Gaetan laughs and says, “He’s a nice guy, though. Apologized after that hit in my second shift during the second.” Both the laugh and the comment earn him points in Lambert’s book. The Wildcat continues talking while Lambert takes a drink. “I think the biggest guys tend to be the nicest ones.” 

That nearly makes Lambert spit-take. “ _Shit,_ no!” He disagrees. “Esk pulled the worst pranks on me and Vesemir growing up. Oven ran over a rabbit once in his truck and giggled like a lunatic. And Letho Guletski? You think that guy has any remorse over what happened to Foltest? I never read or heard any hint of it in any of his interviews.” 

That makes Gaetan scowl for some reason. “Probably was given restrictions on what he can say by PR. You know how it is.” 

”Foltest _died_ from that hit,” Lambert hisses at him. 

”Yeah,” Gaetan says. “And I’m not crying for him. The Blue Stripes had a shitty way of playing that would have made the team go bankrupt from fines sooner or later. Foltest certainly didn’t help the situation.” 

”Lower your fucking voice,” Lambert snaps at him. “Fenn and Silas are fucking right over there.” Almost a quarter of Lambert’s team are former Blue Stripes; Roche even wore an A for Vizima. 

At least the man has the grace to look a bit ashamed as he nods. “Change of subject,” he says. “While you’re tall, you aren’t necessarily big.” 

”What is that supposed to mean?” 

”I’m saying you aren’t known to be a nice guy,” Gaetan says, rolling his eyes. 

”You can just say that I’m an asshole to my face. I don’t make a habit of punching people who tell the truth.” Lambert loves to be reasonable when people least expect it. Really throws them off. Gaetan, though, just shrugs a shoulder and smiles a bit. Pretty classy for a Wildcat, Lambert can admit to himself. 

”You’re at least a funny and intelligent asshole,” Gaetan says. “So I can see why Aiden has this thing for you.” 

The news doesn’t come as a surprise, but Aiden’s old buddy straight-out saying it does. “Don’t you have, like, the bro-code down here at the ass-end of the Continent?” 

Gaetan laughs again. “Dude, me just saying it like that is probably still less obvious than Cray’s ‘subtle’ flirting. Didn’t he used to make kissy faces at you across the center line?” 

”That’s not exactly a new phenomenon. Junod from the Bears does that to me— have you seen how he has to tuck that godsdamned beard into his jersey? If I have to start thinking every lip pucker given to me on the ice is a come-on, I will have to quit hockey.” 

Gaetan, aptly, makes a grossed-out face. Which only shows he has common sense and a working gag reflex. “Yeah. Fuck. _No._ ” 

_”Exactly,”_ Lambert agrees, pleased that his motion has been seconded and passed. 

”But still,” Gaetan presses on after a moment, “Aiden has been into you for a long time. Talked about you a lot.” 

”He has a whole list of players he talks about fucking. Cray once talked my ear off for twenty minutes about Erland Larviksson, for fuck’s sake. And that other D-man on the Griffins... can’t remember his name. With the nose.” 

_”With the nose!”_ Gaetan repeats with a snort, as he slaps the table and cackles. “I somehow still know exactly who you mean by that!” 

Aiden comes by and looms across the table to peer suspiciously at the two of them. “Nice to see you guys getting along.” 

”Your boy Bertie is alright,” Gaetan says, like he is magnanimously admitting a lost bet. 

Aiden shoots a sharp look at Lambert, who lifts his hands up innocently. “Best behavior. I said.” Aiden’s old pal is gonna have to do a lot more than call him “Bertie.” Gaetan’s okay, and it isn’t likely to be a habit that’ll spread through the locker room if Lambert doesn’t nip it in the bud like he needs to with his own team. 

”Gates isn’t telling you all the embarrassing shit he has on me?” 

”Nah, though I’d definitely be interested in hearing a few of those stories,” Lambert says. “But seeing as _both_ my brothers are on our team, I figure that I preemptively lose every shame-story competition I’d get into with you.” 

* * *

_A thing for you,_ Gaetan had said. Lambert hears it in his head as he, Aiden, and the others get to the place the team’s staying. 

Aiden’s hanging off of Lambert’s shoulder, having drank past his super-chatty condition of buzzed and now stumbling in a sleepy, quiet state of inebriation that Lamber has only seen him in a few times. With a quick detour to pick up their key at the front desk, Lambert hauls Cray along with him as they go to find their room. 

His and Aiden’s stuff is already in the room thanks to Geralt actually following through with what he had said he would do. Of course, there is the trade-off that his brothers have another room key, so Lambert lets Aiden topple onto one bed so that he can make sure the toilet bowl’s not plastic-wrapped or the beds haven’t been short-sheeted. All that seems to be awry is that the complimentary shampoo and conditioner is missing, but he figures he’ll let that slide and just tease G about his hair again tomorrow. 

It was probably Eskel who’d left the electrolyte drinks, though, ‘cause Regis may be team dad but Eskel gets embarrassing about taking care of Lambert sometimes. Lambert makes Aiden sit up and chug half of one before he pulls him back to his feet and shoves him toward the washroom. 

”Wanna sleep,” Aiden complains through a yawn. 

”Piss first,” Lambert commands. “I saw how much wine you gulped down before you switched to Nilfgaardian Lemon.” 

Cray decides to undo his fly and walk out of his trousers as he crosses the room and leaves them on the floor. After a few nights of sharing rooms, Lambert knows now that he’s finicky about not leaving remnants of food and used dishes around but doesn’t give a shit about leaving clothing everywhere. Lambert isn’t gonna bother about trying to clean up after him, so he just changes and snags his dopp kit to brush his teeth. 

Aiden’s in front of the toilet with both hands bracing himself on the wall like he’s about to be frisked. Lambert snickers. _“Dude.”_

”’M dizzy,” Aiden slurs. 

”You’ll make a godsdamn mess, loser. I’m gonna make you clean it up. Can’t believe I have to say it, but hold your dick.” 

Cray gives him a boozy leer. 

”Don’t even say it,” Lambert says with a quick, snorting laugh. “Just sit the fuck down. I wanna brush my teeth then go to sleep.” 

* * *

In the morning Geralt uses his key to stroll in and wake them up bright and early and hustles them into packing so they can join the rest of the guys for breakfast before they head back to the arena to portal to their next destination. 

Aiden pokes unenthusiastically at his food. “What did you and Gates talk about for so long?” 

”That shit with the Vizima Blue Stripes,” Lambert says with a shrug. “Your incomprehensible crush on Larviksson. How Junod from Brugge is the ugliest guy in the League.” 

”That’s it?” 

”Of course not,” Lambert says. Why keep the fact that he discussed something embarrassing about Cray with his old teammate a secret when Lambert can give him shit for it? “Dude brought up how you have apparently been beating off to photos of me for the past few years.” 

”He did not,” Aiden says. He’s putting on a good show of casual scorn for that idea but Lambert can see his ears getting pink as he looks down at his plate. 

”Gates said that at least I am a hilarious and intelligent asshole. A much higher caliber than your usual taste in guys. Like Erland fucking Larviksson.” 

”Go fuck yourself, Morhen,” Aiden says, making a production of rolling his eyes. 

Lambert just makes an ‘is that all you’ve got?’ gesture and shovels more food into his mouth. 

* * *

It is freaking hysterical to see Aiden hissing into the phone as they wait for their ride back to the stadium, though. No doubt harassing Gaetan about what he actually told Lambert. 

Lambert just shakes his head when Dettlaff says, “What?” at his snicker, and doesn’t try to get closer to eavesdrop.


End file.
